Love is a fish 
	that wriggles and squirms 
	when out of its element
		and yet, 
	glides and races with incredible graces
	when familiar and comfortable,
	soft eyes open, alert, aware;
	mouth kissing, embracing, caressing the waters 
		in a sensual lilting rhythm of locomotion.

Some people say 
	they don't like to fish,
	don't have what it takes to bait the hook,
		hurt the worm, 
		snag the bloodied lip;
	don't understand the challenge, the hunt, 
		the competitive edge of deception
		required to trick that graceful beast 
		into a lair's watery grave with
		cold steel and synthetic nylon siren.

They can't stand the final gasping struggle,
		wriggles and squirms, the smell.
		Then the blood, the guts,
		the eye which stares so damnably still 
		from out that severed head, mouth gaping,
		tiny carcass trace of a struggled violation.

And yet, they make too much of it.  It is a fish. 
	Dinner, protein complement for dill and spinach.
	Served with cool white wine and a sprinkle of lemon.


Love is a fish 
	that wriggles and squirms 
	when out of its element
		and yet, 
	glides and races with incredible graces
	when familiar and comfortable,
	soft eyes open, alert, aware;
	mouths kissing, embracing, caressing the passion  
		within us in a sensual lilting rhythm of emotion.

I'll wade deep, trawl far, cast and tend a long line for that right fish, 
to smile with the cool white wine and a sprinkled sparkle of lemon...